


Two Weeks Notice

by TheOriginalSuki



Series: Jonsa: A Dream of Spring [3]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-16 01:12:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19307623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOriginalSuki/pseuds/TheOriginalSuki
Summary: Sunscreen and disaster cakes: what love is made of.***Jonsa: A Dream of Spring tumblr event Day 5: Modern and Movies





	Two Weeks Notice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [siriuslymylife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriuslymylife/gifts).



> This was so easy to write and it just flowed out of me without a plan. Not my usual painstaking style, that's probably why! Based on the Sandra Bullock film Two Weeks Notice, which is the epitome of my romantic fantasies. Comment if you enjoyed it?

There was nothing anyone could do.  Once Sansa made a decision, there was no talking her back from it.  And this time Sansa had had enough.  Had enough of playing the role of the long-suffering, sacrificial woman to his great man.

 

"I quit," she said.  She was standing in front of his desk, delivering his coffee -- just the way he liked it, black with a bit of freshly ground cinnamon -- and he looked up sharply from his work and shoved his glasses up.

 

"What?"

 

She set his mug down -- the blue one with a white wolf on it, his favourite, and it had a chip in the side but he would use no other -- and said, "I can't do this anymore."

 

His mournful brows knit together in a look of utter despair.  "Do what?"

 

"Be this.  Be your mother, your sister, your business partner, your ... wife.  Jon, you can't write a grocery list without asking for my opinion on it.  You call me at three o'clock in the morning because you can't sleep and ask me to come over to eat the cake you just baked.  You make me go into meetings before you so that I can rearrange the seating situation just  _in_   _case_ you have to sit too near that Daenerys woman--"

 

It was true, he didn't like Daenerys, her eyes on him were very grabby.  It made his skin hot, and not in a good way.

 

"-- get the place on your back you can't reach with sunscreen before you trot off to play volleyball with the boys and leave me stranded to be picked up by strange men at the resort.  Oh, and let's not forget, you make me eat all the onions off your plate whenever we're out to dinner -- "

 

"How is that different from you making me order the side of fries because you know you're not going to be satisfied with your salad?"

 

" -- Jon, I can't even nurture a sustained relationship with a man, much less meet anyone, if I'm looking after you day in an day out, and you don't even appreciate it!"

 

"That-that's not true."  Jon stood form his desk, coming around to the front so he could press his case.  "You're the highest paid assistant in this business."

 

It was the exact wrong thing to say and he knew it because she slammed a piece of paper on the surface of the desk.  "My resignation letter," she said cooly, "two weeks' notice."

 

***

 

Jon was inconsolable.  He moped the whole two weeks, but Sansa was light as air.  She sang on the way to work in the morning, helped herself to an extra doughnut from the refreshment cart, and even told a joke around the water cooler.  People couldn't believe she was quitting, but she didn't care; nothing could kill this buzz.

 

On the last day of work, the company got together to throw her a farewell party.  They opened bottles of tequila, raked up the music, and loosened their ties.  Sansa felt secure in her future, but one thing dampened her: Jon was not there.  Not even with one of his terribly muddled, middle-of-the-night disaster cakes.  She tried to ignore the hurt in her gut and threw back another shot.  Her (ex) coworkers erupted into cheers.  It was no small thing to see the diligent, serious, and standoffish Sansa Stark cut loose.

 

But then that night, after she had settled into her apartment, she went to change into something comfortable, and pulled an over-sized worn out t-shirt from the drawer -- only to realise that it was Jon's.  She bundled it up and threw it on the floor in protest.  How had he managed to soak into every crevice of her life, invading her waking thoughts and worries?  When she first to work for him, she did so because he was decent; he didn't make passes at her the way other employers did; and he was smart, at least in how he handled his business, if not his interpersonal relationships; and he was good; he did what he thought was right, damn the consequences.  Sansa had seem him stand down a construction giant because it would unhouse a local community, and she knew he was afraid, because he asked if he could come over later and curl up on her sofa and watch  _You've Got Mail_  with her, which he would never have agreed to if he wasn't desperate for reassurance.

 

Was this what the rest of her life was doomed to?  Running into little reminders of him even when she tried to break free?

 

A knock sounded on her door, and she kicked off her heels and went to answer.  She couldn't recall ordering Chinese food this late at night, but it was something she would do after going out drinking.  Only it wasn't a food delivery.  It was Jon.

 

He stood in the hallway with his hands in his pockets, and the round-rimmed glasses distinctly absent, and he looked like hell.  "Can I come in?"

 

She moved aside to let him enter.  As she shut the door, she pivoted around, crossing her arms in self-preparation for the oncoming complaint.  Jon faced her, shoulder leaning into the wall, looking for all the world like scolded puppy.

 

"You're right," he said.

 

Her arms dropped in surprise.  "What?"

 

"You're right.  I take you for granted.  And I'm sorry."  He shoved off of the wall and straightened a bit to formalise his delivery.

 

She heaved a sigh and plucked a wayward hair from off of his shirt.  "Thank you."

 

"But--?"

 

"But I'm not staying."

 

"Why?"

 

"Because I want to build a life with someone," she said softly.  "Someday, anyway.  And I just can't do that if you're taking up all of me."

 

His eyes widened slowly.  Something trembled in the dark irises, some subtle understanding.

 

His vulnerability made her uncomfortable, so she moved around him and took a sharp turn into the kitchen.  She filled a kettle with water and set it to boil.

 

Jon followed her and watched her as she moved about the place.

 

"I didn't mean to take up all of you," he said softly.

 

She turned to him and gave him a small, reassuring smile.  "I know."

 

He crossed the space between them and reached out for her arm, trailing his hand down, until he held her hand in his.  He put his other hand over their closed palms.  "I want you to be happy."

 

"Thank you."

 

"Do you think you couldn't be ...  _that_?  As, you know?"

 

She pulled her hand out of his to lift the whistling kettle.  "Be what?  As what?"

 

"Happy.  As my wife."

 

The kettle blew long and shrill, and nobody went to remove it.

 

Her hands curled the edge of the stove and she stared at the steam, unseeing.

 

"That's ... not," she started slowly.  "Don't  _joke_."

 

"I'm not joking."  His voice betrayed annoyance.  "Is that what you think of being married to me?  A joke?"

 

She turned pointedly, her chin sharp and accusing.  "You ... have never shown even the slightest interest in me.  You can't just come in here, manipulate me into staying in whatever field of comfort that you have delegated me to by proposing."

 

He pulled a hand through his gnarled hair.  It was an angry gesture.  " _Manipulate_ you?"

 

"You don't mean to, but that's what you're doing."  She grasped the complaining kettle at last and deposited it on the counter.

 

"And what about you?  You ease right into my life like you own the place and take charge, making everything better, so that I get used to you, comfortable, and then take yourself away again without even asking me how I might feel about it?  That's not manipulative?"  He added, pointedly, before she could object, "Unintentionally?"

 

She scowled at him.  "What are you saying?"

 

"Fucking marry me!"

 

The blood drained from her face, and for two seconds, she entertained the thought.  Could she shoulder it then?  Would it be different if she could call him back from the boys at volleyball with the singular claim of a spouse?  If she and he went to to the grocery store together so she could veto the 24 pack of Tab.  If she could shut down the three-in-the-morning-cake-baking because she'd be in the bed when he stirred?  And --  _oh_.  She shut off the flow of thoughts before they veered toward the indecent.

 

A catalogue of the past few years spent with Jon, their domestic spats and familiar rhythms, played in her mind's eye.  Didn't she already have what she'd always wanted?

 

The word that came out next was not what she planned.  "W-when?"

 

He paused, considering.  Then he said, "Now."

 

***

 

The following work week was quiet, as Jon Snow was not in attendance to see that his subordinates got work done.  He had, in fact, flown himself and his (former) assistant to Las Vegas, and immediately afterward to a resort in the Caribbean, where he very deliberately ignored any work alliances to bathe in the attentions of his luminous, red-headed wife.

 

"How does one stay pale in paradise?" he asked her, lifting her hair from the back of her neck to massage in the suncream.

 

"I don't know," she said, with a fond wariness in her voice, "how?"

 

He leaned over her shoulder and said, with raised brows: "Generous and frequent application."

 

And she laughed and laughed.


End file.
